


pacts with devils

by lordbhreanna



Series: like oil and water [2]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Hate Sex, Implied Sexual Content, Resident Evil 3 Remake inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22177375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordbhreanna/pseuds/lordbhreanna
Summary: “I have come to talk business,” he replies, not hiding his amusement.Jill grits her teeth. This is a new kind of nightmare. Her finger touches the trigger. She keeps glaring at him with narrowed eyes.“I have no business with you,” she retorts coldly.Nicholai chuckles, throwing his head back. “Oh, but you're a business in itself.”Then it clicks in Jill’s brain immediately. He’s come to collect the reward, right?-It's 1999, several months after Raccoon City. Nicholai breaks into Jill's apartment to make her an offer she definitely wants to resist.
Relationships: Nicholai Ginovaef | Nikolai Zinoviev/Jill Valentine
Series: like oil and water [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1599376
Comments: 24
Kudos: 69





	pacts with devils

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Restricted Work] by [Anuviel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anuviel/pseuds/Anuviel). Log in to view. 



> This one follows my previous fic, [a bleeding heart like you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22091299), aka the one where Jill and Nicholai escaped Raccoon City together and they kinda had sex afterwards.

When the keys finally slip from her grasp and hit the corridor’s floor, Jill lets out an annoyed grunt. She has been awake for almost a whole day non-stop, her eyes are dry and probably bloodshot from exhaustion, and she can't even open the door to her apartment. What a master of lockpicking, she jokes to herself; though thinking about Barry brings a little smile to her lips. Jill makes a mental note to call him one of these days, ask about Kathy and the girls.

With a stack of manila folders under her left arm and a bag of groceries hanging from her right wrist, it's a miracle she doesn't lose balance and end up with her ass on the floor when she kneels down to fetch the keys. She sighs relieved once the lock makes a sound, opening the door.

Jill finds comfort in the smallest things these days. Taking baths while listening to some piano music, sleeping more than four hours straight without nightmares. Her hope is to enjoy the bath tonight, at least. She has given up on peaceful dreams; they had been gone since Arklay. After Raccoon City, they may never come back.

After crossing the doorstep, she kicks the door closed with her ankle. It's pitch black, but the moment she puts down the bag and leaves the folders on the small entryway table, she’s certain something is not right.

A burglar? Well, she might not even get her bath either. 

Her hand feels the shape of the handgun in her purse—the one she carries practically everywhere since July 1998. She squints, looking around in the darkness. Jill stares at the end of the short corridor and sees the dim light coming from street lamps and luminous signs leaking through the slats of the living room's blinds.

There's a shadowy silhouette against it. A man leaning against the wall. Jill grabs the gun quickly, heart pounding heavily inside her chest, even if her hand remains steady out of habit as she points it to the trespasser. 

Before she can even order him to freeze, the stranger speaks.

“Good to see you too, Miss Valentine.”

The voice, the accent. Jill's eyes widen in shock, and it's like her heart has now stopped pumping, completely frozen.

As the lights turn on timely, she is welcomed by Nicholai's smirk.

-

Jill blinks her eyes twice, unsure about whether this a hallucination induced by sleep-deprivation or it’s real. He definitely looks real: the same features she remembers, that insufferable smirk on his lips, the wrinkles around his eyes, the raspy five o’ clock shadow. The only difference is that he’s wearing civilian clothes—leather jacket, boots and jeans, all in black and greys. She gulps and takes a step forward.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Her voice comes out a little shakier than she’d have liked, but her hand remains at gunpoint. She examines him quickly, searching for any indication of weapons. So far he seems to be unarmed. It doesn’t mean she’s going to lower her guard. 

“I have come to talk business,” he replies, not hiding his amusement. 

Jill grits her teeth. This is a new kind of nightmare. Her finger touches the trigger. She keeps glaring at him with narrowed eyes.

“I have no business with you,” she retorts coldly.

Nicholai chuckles, throwing his head back. “Oh, but you're a business in itself.”

Then it clicks in Jill’s brain immediately. He’s come to collect the reward, right? Umbrella could be in shambles at this point, but they sure as hell would still like payback for the part she’s playing in their demise. And this greedy son of a bitch has come to get his money, in the end. 

_Maybe the reward went up another five percent, making it more worth the trouble,_ she muses. 

She would give him trouble, then.

Jill pulls the trigger and shoots, aiming for his knee.

-

It all happens very fast.

Nicholai barely dodges the bullet, shouting what she guesses is the Russian equivalent of _fuck_ , and jumps to his left, hitting another wall with his side. A vase she doesn’t even remember breaks. Jill’s heart is racing. She takes aim again, but Nicholai is already on her. The handgun jumps from her grip when he kicks her.

That’s when everything gets really chaotic, like a street fight in the middle of her living room. At one point, she falls down her coffee table after Nicholai manages to punch her in the stomach. Then his lower lip starts dripping blood after she smacks his head against the counter. Pain pierces through her head too when he smashes her against a corner.

Jill doesn’t know how long it takes. The room is filled with their grunts, the breaking sounds of furniture all around, the noise of bones and flesh clashing against each other. He ends up grabbing Jill from behind in a chokehold, trying to reduce her; she fights back with everything she’s got, and her teeth sink down his hand with a surge of rage that starts to cloud her mind. To her pleasure, he yells in pain and frees her. Jill stumbles and coughs, hands covering her aching throat.

Nicholai is grabbing his bloodied arm. From the corner of her eye, she can see the bite marks on his pale skin. 

She’s about to jump onto him again when the doorbell rings.

_Fuck._

-

They stare at each other in silence for the longest time. The doorbell rings twice.

“It’s probably my neighbor,” Jill informs, wiping away the thread of blood from the corner of her mouth. “Let me talk to her and she’ll be gone in a minute.”

Nicholai simply holds her gaze, saying nothing. The doorbell rings again. Jill looks in the direction of the door, desperation getting a hold of her. Her eyes turn back to Nicholai.

“Come on, she’s just an old woman, she doesn’t…” Jill starts to say, her voice trembling, until Nicholai cuts her short and tips his head to the corridor.

“Go.”

Jill dashes to the entrance, shaking her head and hair and attempting to show herself as decent as possible. When she opens the door, she sees the old, small woman on the corridor with an expression of worry all over her face. 

“Ah, Mrs Geller,” Jill says, a full white teeth smile on her face. “Good evening.”

“Is everything alright, Jill?” the woman asks, peeking unashamedly behind her. “I heard some rattle, and a gunshot too, I believe!”

“A gunshot?” Jill repeats with fake surprise. Her cheeks are hurting from pretending to smile and god, she’s always been a terrible liar. “It must’ve come from the TV, Mrs Geller. I appreciate the concern, but you don’t need to worry.”

The old woman wrings her hands, her eyes still look around nervously. 

“Oh, my. It sounded so close. I even heard a man with a Russian accent!” she exclaims in a high-pitched voice. 

Mrs Geller is really frightened, and Jill feels guilty and sorry in equal parts for what she’s put the woman through. Leaning against the doorframe, she laughs lightheartedly.

“Ah, yeah, I was watching one of those terrible action films, you know? With the evil Russian bad guys and lots of explosions.” Jill joins her hands together over her mouth, as if praying. “I’m so sorry, the volume must have been too loud. I didn’t notice.”

“Oh, dear, that’s a relief then!” Mrs Geller lets out a breath, hand on her heart. She then smiles and her eyes wrinkle at the corners. “My grandchildren love those movies too.”

Jill laughs in reply. “Good thing they’re just movies.”

“Indeed! No one wants one of those evil Russians at home, right?”

Jill has to hide the pained expression and simply fakes another laugh, ignoring the actual evil Russian that’s waiting for her in her living room. 

“Exactly,” she adds, then checks her wristwatch. “I’d love to talk more, Mrs Geller, but I gotta get up very early in the morning.”

Mrs Geller apologizes effusively and both women wave each other good night. When Jill makes sure the eldery woman is safely inside her apartment, Jill goes back inside, inhales deeply and readies herself to face her own kind of flesh-and-bone evil Russian bad guy.

-

“Evil Russian, huh?” Nicholai chuckles, sitting on one of the stools at the counter between the kitchen and the living room.

There are still traces of blood on his hand.

Jill crosses her arms and stares at him.

“Well, you are a walking stereotype,” she snaps with venom in her words. “If we continue this,” she gestures to the mess of broken glass, discarded papers and fallen chairs around them, “she or any other neighbor will hear us again and call the police. What do you suggest?”

“That we do not fight,” he replies immediately, leaning back against the counter, legs spread open on the stool. “I told you I had come to talk business.”

Jill raises an eyebrow.

“And you expect me to believe that when you have tried to kill me before for money?”

“No,” Nicholai says nonplussed, shrugging. “But I don't think that specific bonus is up for grabs now. You're worth more money alive than dead, Miss Valentine.”

Jill frowns. She’s not sure that’s a better situation at this point.

“And what kind of business is this?” she asks finally.

Nicholai smirks, as if the answer wasn’t already obvious.

“The kind that makes me very rich, of course.” He proceeds to stand up and pace around the room under Jill’s scrutiny, who is still very much on guard—and she also knows he won’t hurt her unless she attacks first, just like minutes before.

Just like after escaping Raccoon City, where he had many chances to easily kill her on the spot. 

“As you may know,” he starts, waving his finger to underline the sarcasm. “Umbrella is going down. The company is in a panic. Not good for business and not a good client. Sooner or later, they’re going bankrupt. Perhaps not this year, but close enough. So you could say I’m looking for more reliable… business partners. Your side of this matter, however, looks very promising.”

He stops walking around the room and stands in front of her. Only a few steps divide them now. Nicholai resumes his speech.

“I have enough data to bury Umbrella to the ground—and data your American military and government would appreciate,” he rubs his chin, flashing her a smug smile on his face.

Jill frowns without losing sight of him.

“I don’t work for the government,” she corrects pointedly.

Her answer doesn’t faze him in the slightest.

“But you have a direct line, and you want to punish Umbrella.” As if to make a point, he moves closer. Jill has to lift her chin up to hold his stare. “I have everything you need, and you can get me what I need. Simple.”

Sometimes she wonders how the brain of a man like him works. How twisted and egocentric and selfish could someone be without any trace of remorse or shame. He had lived the nightmare, survived it too just like her. Had seen the horrors Umbrella had concocted, even if he had worked for them. Who in their right mind would allow the faintest chance of something as devastating as Raccoon City happening again, of letting the culprits free of any charge… just for money?

Nicholai probably has no nightmares, though. He must sleep comfortably every night. In a wicked sense, Jill wishes she could be so devoid of any humanity. Living would be easier…

But it wouldn’t be right.

“You’re a piece of shit, Nicholai,” Jill states. She doesn’t even sound angry, it feels like saying an unquestionable truth. Not that Nicholai cares. He knows what he is. “Didn’t Raccoon City make you rich already?”

“Think of it as my retirement plan,” he offers amusedly.

Hate and pity boil inside her, and no emotion is winning. Jill rubs the bridge of her nose. There’s a headache threatening to overwhelm her at any moment—shouldn’t she be taking a relaxing bath, resting from work, instead of this? 

“Get out.” It’s her final word. As tempting as it is, she doesn’t think about it.

If she allows it to enter her mind, she would be tempted to accept it. Taking down Umbrella is her only motivation in life at this point. Anything that paves the way to that end seems like a chance worth taking—but this is going too far. Involving dirty mercenaries would just worsen things. She’s sure a case like this would require some legal loops, but this has written _bad idea_ all over.

Of course, that said mercenary is the one she has a complicated… thing with weighs much more against getting him mixed up. She dodges his look for the first time, because she’s thinking about the safehouse and that couldn’t be further from what she wants to think about now. A wave of heat creeps up her neck and cheeks.

“I said get out,” she repeats, and Nicholai clicks his tongue in disappointment.

“You’re making a big mistake, Miss Valentine.”

She doesn’t indulge him in an answer, knowing verbal confrontation would just meddle her resolve. With her arms firmly crossed over her chest, she follows Nicholai as he finally moves to the door. He gives her one last look, head slightly tilted. Jill doesn’t react, and he seems to accept this is a deadend.

The corridor’s light bathes him and Jill sees his squared back disappeared beyond the doorstep. Unexpectedly, she starts to breathe again. Still, there’s a knot in her throat, her stomach churning. She lets out a tired sigh, lost in thought.

-

By the time the door closes, it’s too late. The sense of doubt is growing inside her like an infected seed. Her eyes look down at the stack of folders piled up on the entryway table. Months of work, litigations, evidence—and it seems to never be enough. She and Chris are pushing everyday, they are using every channel available to build a solid case against Umbrella. One the corrupt government can’t simply sweep under a rug and wash their hands of. That’s what they would do if there’s not enough evidence to prove Umbrella’s crimes in detail, in front of a jury—who and who isn’t involved… and who is to pay. No politician who had dealt with them would confess publicly.

They are but a small group, with no power or resources. Just a dozen of people who have banded together in the months following Raccoon City, people who want to see justice being made—and all of them have lost something to Umbrella. 

But the citizens have to know. The corporation has to pay for what they have caused. And Jill has to make sure she’s doing everything within her reach to avoid a disaster like Raccoon City.

This is closer to a deal with the devil. They might not even have the money a bastard like Nicholai could ask for something this. But what if they end up losing everything with what they’ve got? Would she have to wonder if she had done all she could for the rest of her life? Worse yet: would she have to wonder if justice could have been done by just accepting the deal of a treacherous gun-for-hire?

Perhaps she simply needs to put her own gripes aside. 

With reluctance, Jill quickly grabs the keys, opens the door and runs to the corridor.

-

She catches Nicholai by the elevator.

“Wait,” she says, panting lightly. 

He turns around on his heels, hands inside the pockets of his jacket, and gifts her a conceited smirk.

“Change of heart, Miss Valentine?”

Jill gulps, hating to do this face to face more than anything else.

“There is a very small chance I might consider it. But I need proof and I’m not making any promises.”

He raises both eyebrows. “You sell a poor bargain.”

She snorts. Exhaustion takes the better judgement and, unconsciously, she blurts out an invitation that is definitely not part of her initial plan.

“I have a fine, aged bourbon in my cabinet. Is that enough?”

He draws closer, his steps resonating on the empty corridor. Jill gulps.

“Very well.”

-

Jill puts down a couple of glasses on the counter and pours two fingers of bourbon in each one. Her eyes dart back to him, glowering. Nicholai sits next to her, briefly sniffs the drink and takes a generous gulp. She simply sips hers.

“Well, where’s the proof you’re just not talking shit?” she asks, putting her glass down.

Nicholai slips one hand inside his jacket. When he takes it out the inner pocket, there’s a small disc between his fingers. He fiddles with it playfully, brandishing it like a symbol of victory in front of her.

“Consider this an advance free of charge. There’s much more.” He leaves it on the marble surface, then slides it to her side. “I have been very meticulous.”

Jill side glances him while she takes the disc with caution, as if it could burst into flames at any moment. Standing up from the stool, she walks to her desk and starts the computer. The machine is a bit rusty and it takes her a couple more minutes that make the silence much more uncomfortable (for her, of course, as Nicholai seems to be delighted with this new turn of events). When the folder opens on the screen, she skims the files as fast as possible. 

Her eyes widen, hand over her mouth. Jill leans back on the chair, cold sweat beads drop down her neck. Fucking Nicholai, she thinks. This is so much more detailed than she would have expected. Personnel data, experiment reports, virus classifications and countermeasures, emails and letters exchanged between Umbrella executives, clients, congressmen. This is not only mere information—this is dirt on many, many people. 

It’s overwhelming, in the best possible way this could have turned out—which will make the decision to use it or not so much more heavy and complicated.

After surveying the contents a little longer, she feels the need to speak and actually say something, instead of just looking startled at the computer screen.

“I’ll need some time to read through this, it might take a couple of days,” she explains, fixing her stare on him again. She clears her throat before continuing. “If… if I agreed, how do I contact you?”

Nicholai unexpectedly stands up and approaches her, strolling up next to the desk with an air of arrogance. Her frown deepens—at this distance, he looks imposing. Her index finger taps anxiously the desk.

“I will contact you, do not worry,” he replies, waving his hand.

Jill rolls her eyes and hurries to stand up too, bothered by how small he makes her feel. 

“I’m already regretting this,” she mutters under her breath, rubbing the bridge of her nose tiredly, as she moves back to the kitchen. She needs that whiskey as soon as possible.

Nicholai stops her, his fingers gripping her by the elbow.

“You won't,” he retorts confidently, placing his glass on the desk’s surface. Then he points to her face with his chin. “Looks like a nasty cut.”

Suddenly, she feels it for the first time. The wet thread of blood dripping down her temple. Without thinking, her hand moves towards the source of the blood and she touches a fresh slash on her left eyebrow. Jill winces at the contact, a wave of pain spreading through her head.

That’d explain the increasing headache. She mumbles a profanity and looks at her fingertips, all smeared in red blood.

“Thanks to whom, huh?” Jill bites back, throwing him a piercing glare.

He’s bruised and beaten up, too, although that’s poor consolation. Before she can free herself from his grasp, she sees Nicholai wet his thumb in the bourbon glass, then raising it to her forehead. Gently, he touches the cut.

“I have your dental history carved in my hand, so we’re even,” he chuckles wryly.

Jill’s shock is cut short by the bubbling pain of the alcohol against the wound. She hisses, shutting her eyes close. His thumb keeps caressing her in what Jill would almost describe as tenderly. The knot in her stomach tightens, and she feels like she hasn’t taken a mouthful of air in hours.

They are standing inches apart, and Jill realises the closeness is as intoxicating as the bourbon. He wipes the blood away with his fingertip. She just watches him silently, not responding, her eyes fixed on his every gesture. The need to push him away equals her wanting to touch him, to wrap her fingers around the lapels of his jacket and pull his mouth to hers. There’s no reason for giving into this now—she is not in shock after surviving a catastrophe, after losing so many people hours ago. 

Now it would be more grounded in reality, and that scares her. It’s like she is both drawn to his presence and repulsed by it, all the same time, in the same space. Confusing doesn’t begin to explain it, but Jill can’t help the way her body reacts to his thumb trailing down her cheek. It takes her back to the safehouse once again; that sends shivers through her back. He stops there for a second, bowing his head closer to her. Their noses almost brush. Jill swallows the lump in her throat. 

His thumb moves down a bit more. He finds the corner of her mouth, fingertip resting softly over the swollen lip.

“Put some ice there too.”

Her hand springs up and clenches around his wrist to stop him from moving further. 

“Isn’t your business finished?” she insists, tilting her head up.

Nicholai's lips curl up into a complacent smile.

“It is. I’m not against mixing business with pleasure, though.”

That’s the moment she should have pushed back, kick him out of the apartment for good. But she realises too late she can’t think straight around this man when they’re like this and not communicating through violence. So she allows him to narrow the distance between them, while his lips graze the shell of her ear.

“I wouldn’t mind a round two,” he adds in a whisper, nibbling at her earlobe. 

His hand comes to rest on the curve of her waist. In a matter of seconds, he’s all over her and Jill struggles to breathe more and more—until she makes a choice. Why she wants this is beyond her comprehension. She knows it’s an unnecessary complication, perhaps even a dangerous one down the line. It’d be like stepping on the same stone from months ago. 

But she craves it—the rawness, the intensity, the wildness of it all. As much as she has tried not to think about that night, it’s impossible to avoid the memory now. Not with his breath down the skin of her neck and his lips brushing it lightly. She doesn’t want to.

She wants to relive how good she felt then, that tiny pocket of isolated joy in a sea of despair. A daily routine and a nice apartment haven’t changed how deeply miserable she feels most of the time. Is it so bad to look for a wisp of comfort when reality struggles to give her any?

In the end, Jill lifts her arm. Fuck it, she thinks, a sense of resolve set finally on her mind. Her fingers sit at the back of Nicholai's nape, stroking the hair of his neckline. Chin up, Jill’s expression remains undisturbed and, when she speaks to his ear, it’s with an earnest tone.

“Make it three and I won’t kick you out of here.”

She does smirk lightly when she notices Nicholai's muted shock. He leans back a little, looking down at her with burning eyes. Like he thought he had her figured out, and has been proven wrong. But whatever it is in his eyes, it’s not a wounded ego. It’s hunger and awe. Of course he tries to hide it, but she can see through it—and she can’t even point her finger as to why she is so sure. Yet she is, no doubt in her mind.

The next moment, everything turns into chaos again—but from a different kind. His head is buried in her neck, lips sucking at her skin and hands slipping under her white tank top. She leaps onto him, her legs closed around his hips and arms draped over his shoulders. They hit a few pieces of furniture this time too, except now grunts are followed by moans that Jill tries to keep as low as possible.

“Bedroom,” she gasps, nodding to a door when they hit a bookshelf and the wood creaks after the impact. 

As Nicholai carries them both, they leave a trail of discarded clothes behind them. By the time they reach the bedroom, Jill is wearing only pants and he has already removed his boots and jacket. It’s darker and colder there, which seems fitting. 

When she falls down the mattress, it bounces and squeaks loudly; a part of Jill amusedly realises what a terrible neighbor she’s being that night, and she won't be able to look at them face to face the next morning. The thought vanishes quickly from her mind, though, when she sees Nicholai, arms lifted up, completely shrouded in darkness as he takes his t-shirt off by the collar. Jill hates him a little bit more because she firmly knows he’s putting on a show—worst of all, she enjoys it, the way his silvery hair shines, how the urban lights cast shadows over his muscles and jawline, looming over her at the end of the bed. She lies there, propped up by the elbows, her chest following the same agitated rhythm of his breathing.

Nicholai dips one knee on the mattress, which sinks under his weight. As he crawls between her legs, Jill loses no time to lock her arm over his shoulders and pull him down. He falls onto her flatly with a pleased grunt, licking at her lips. Her split one would feel worse after it, but Jill kisses him fully and desperate and their mouths make the dirtiest wet noise she’s ever experienced. 

His fingers dive down, splayed over the exposed skin of her stomach. Nicholai teases her, touching briefly her navel and the hem of her underwear. Jill can’t avoid the gasp coming out of her lungs in anticipation, while his tongue is still inside her mouth, and she hears him laugh wickedly in the kiss. She would have protested, but Nicholai doesn’t grant her the chance.

When his hand slips under her pants, warm fingers between her thighs, Jill simply shuts her eyes close and lets herself enjoy one night free of nightmares.

**Author's Note:**

> So the dynamic I see for these two could be summed up as: the more Jill roasts him/hates him, the more Nicholai is into her. Meanwhile, Jill is horny for that hot Russian mess of an asshole. Sometimes you just want delicious junk food, even if it's bad for your health.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you like Jill/Nikolai (I think I'm gonna start calling it Valenviev, it sounds nice), because that's probably all the fic you gonna get from me these next months.


End file.
